


All Fall Down

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Necrophilia Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny how you get used to the little quirks when they've always been there....</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving old fics from 2009, and terribly far behind in canon. No comment spoilers, please, I do intend to get caught up! If the tags have you iffy about the content or confused as to the "implied" pairings (the way AO3 insists on arranging the relationships tag order is misleading if I add them both), there are more notes at the end.

He can't remember when he first met them. Maybe he's always known them: Father's friends, the men who come sometimes in the afternoon but more often at night, who sit around the games room playing at billiards and cards, talking with light voices and serious faces over drinks they pour themselves. His father lets him sit in the big chair with him if it's not too late and he dodges his nurse successfully enough, and Father's friends laugh to see him there, call him the young master, the little king. He knows only a few of them outside this room: Uncle Klaus, who brings him games, and grumpy Diederich, who leads him around the stable yard on his tall horse sometimes and who slips him German chocolates when no one's looking.

And Undertaker, who he shyly calls "Auntie" when it's just the two of them until he's five. He doesn't realize the man's delighted laughter isn't because they aren't really related, that it isn't the same inexplicable reaction he gets from every adult that tells him he's done _something_ right if not what.

He forgives Undertaker for laughing, because he never sees the man do it again. He grins a lot--always, always--but only Ciel's father can wring a chuckle out of him, and even then it looks like work.

"That man," his mother says sometimes, exasperated but fond. "He spends too much time in that gloomy old--well. He needs to get out more."

She always glances down at him just before she changes what she's going to say, and he wonders if this is another of those things he's not supposed to hear. The house is full of them, but they're always about people he doesn't know. Not about Father's friends.

He takes his courage in both hands one day, looks up from the chess set Uncle Klaus has brought him with pieces made from real onyx and ivory all the way from the Dark Continent, and says, "I like him."

His mother turns from the nursery window with a startled blink, turns her back on the tall, thin man striding off on foot, and suddenly smiles. "Yes," she says. "I do, too."

She's sweeping out into the hall while he's still grinning up at her, and he hears her calling for old Tanaka, telling him to bring that fool back, he's left before dinner can be served.

Undertaker sits beside him that evening, and using a spoon as a makeshift shovel, solemnly inters slabs of roast in the potatoes while Father and Diederich argue in hushed tones. Ciel tries to keep his giggles muffled behind his hands, hunching over his plate with shaking shoulders, but his mother's eyes flick back and forth between them, and she smiles.

"But now that you've buried it," asks Ciel in a whisper, "how are you going to eat it?"

"Oh, I suppose I'll just have to dig it up again," Undertaker says, grinning mildly. "Like a dog with a bone."

"Wuff!" Ciel agrees, just loudly enough that his father glances over at them, amused, and shakes his head.

***

Ciel likes summer. Even though his birthday is in winter, there's less time to play, more lessons to keep him inside where it's warm so he doesn't get sick again. He doesn't like being sick, but he'd rather be outside.

He's in the center of the hedge maze, humming the game Mother and Auntie Red like to play, when Undertaker finds him. "Oh," Undertaker says, "I know this one. _'London Bridge is falling down,'"_ he sings along in a creaky tenor, _"'falling down, falling down....'"_ And then he chuckles, very softly, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his long black coat. "Ah, nursery rhymes. They're always so charming."

"What's your favorite?" Ciel asks, though he suspects Undertaker is probably too old to remember many.

Undertaker's smile gives a funny little jerk, the corners of his mouth hitching up in a toothy grin, but he patiently sings, _"Ring around the rosie, pocket full of--"_

Ciel frowns, ignores the toy soldiers he's brought as he scrambles up. "No," he says. "You're doing it wrong."

Undertaker recoils dramatically, but Ciel can almost make out his dumbfounded stare beneath the thick fringe that covers his eyes. "I am?"

"Yes," Ciel informs him, holding out his hands. "You have to do it like this."

Undertaker hesitates but pulls his hands from his pockets slowly, takes Ciel's with a lopsided smile. "All right," he says. "We'll do it properly."

It's hard to sing along when Ciel wants to shriek with laughter, but Undertaker is good at spinning, and he leans back against the man's hold, both of them circling around each other and all but shouting the words as they get to the end.

_"Ashes, ashes, we all...fall...down!"_

And they do, lying there giggling on the grass until Mother comes to see what all the fuss is about. "There's lemonade," she says, "if you boys are through raising a commotion."

That makes Ciel laugh even harder, because Undertaker's as old as _Father,_ after all. And Undertaker is still laughing, and that makes him happy, although his mother...his mother's face is strange. She looks awed and worried and resigned all at once, but she ruffles Ciel's hair as he picks himself up, brushes the grass off him and starts to do the same for Undertaker before he shakes himself like a crow ruffling its feathers.

"Lemonade," the man says, "would be lovely."

The smile is back, the laughter gone. But that's all right. Now that Ciel knows he can still make the man laugh, he'll just have to try harder.

When he tells Father that, cradled in strong arms on the edge of sleep, for a moment Father's eyes look just like Mother's. He looks uncertain, _sad,_ and that nearly wakes Ciel up again until his father smiles, pulls him closer to his chest as they make the long walk to Ciel's room. "That's a good thought," Father says, planting a kiss on his temple. "You'll be doing my job for me soon enough."

"You want to make Undertaker laugh too?"

"More than you know," Father says, and Ciel hugs his neck hard, settling his head down contentedly. He doesn't like all of Father's friends, but he likes this one, and when Father wants something, he makes it happen.

"Good."

***

When he comes back to the townhouse in London--and he can't say from how far away; much of the past month has been a blur, including the exact location where he's been held--he's lost the trick of smiling. Sebastian doesn't require it of him--Sebastian, point of fact, requires only one thing from him, and for that he'll have to wait--but it makes the other servants nervous.

He has them all dismissed. He doesn't trust them anyway, not knowing whose pawns they might be. Only Tanaka does he keep, old Tanaka, who nearly died to keep him safe. The old man's good for very little, his health shattered by smoke and blade and burns, but Ciel will keep him because the old man is _his,_ indubitably his.

He wants no visitors, but they come anyway: Madame Red, Elizabeth, Uncle Klaus. Sebastian watches them all from a neutral point just behind his shoulder, the butler's face as composed as the master's at first.

Sebastian is a better actor than he is. The demon's smiles and reassurances settle his broken family's fears, send them off convinced he's being looked after to the best of Sebastian's abilities. It's amazing to him that they're so trusting. Sebastian could be anyone, anything at all.

It's late, nearly time for him to turn in, when Sebastian appears in the study, a dark, silent shape with another at his back. Sebastian has managed to charm Undertaker's hat away from him, but the man is still in his work clothes; they can't be anything but. He looks a little like a country vicar in all that shapeless black, but the heavy, dusty boots, the stained and fingerless gloves, give him away. For the first time in Ciel's memory, Undertaker isn't smiling at all.

Sebastian watches the man like a hawk, a snake, and doesn't leave the room even when Ciel throws him a dismissive glance.

Undertaker brushes past the demon with weary steps, stands before Ciel a long moment in silence as Ciel puts his book aside. It's his father's favorite chair he's sitting in, and though it feels suddenly too big for him, he sits up straighter, looks up at his father's friend with steady eyes. He's had other visitors too, some who'd wanted to confirm their loyalty to the Phantomhive name, others who'd wanted to sound him out as a new opponent. He has no idea which Undertaker will be, though he hopes for the former. Having Undertaker for an enemy would be...unpleasant.

"So," Undertaker says at last, face turning away. Ciel still can't see his eyes. "You missed the funeral, boy. It was some of my best work."

Ciel stares, the breath going out of him harshly. This...isn't what he expects to hear. "You...?"

"I took care of them," Undertaker says, head tilting as if he's peering at Ciel through his fringe. "There wasn't much, you understand. Strictly closed-casket. But I did what I could."

Undertaker. Undertaker has seen to his mother, his father. Did them that one last favor.

Ciel realizes his eyes are closed tight enough to spark sunbursts of red and purple behind his lids only when Undertaker's hand settles on his head, heavy and cool. Ciel doesn't cry. There are no tears left in him. But his voice is faint and strained as he says, "Thank you."

"Mm. That one's on the house." Undertaker leaves his hand there for a moment before letting it drop, tugging lightly at a strand of his hair on the way. "No jokes today, then, boy?"

"No," he says. "Sorry. Maybe next time."

"I'll hold you to it. You're always welcome at the shop," he adds, pausing as he turns to go. "If anything comes up."

So that's it, then. Undertaker is...still Undertaker. Loyal, perhaps. Kind, maybe. Ciel tells himself it's his imagination that something seems to have gone out of the man, some spark of humor, however macabre, snuffed out and ground to ash. All the same, he can't help wondering whether Undertaker misses Ciel's parents too. They must have known each other for years. Funny how he's never thought of that before; all this time, he's only thought of the man as _his._

It's a dangerous assumption to make, and he can't afford to make assumptions. From now on, he has to be sure.

***

The shop is dusty, full of caskets, the windows so dingy it's clear they've never been cleaned. "Have a seat," Undertaker invites, and since there's nowhere to sit but on the coffins, Ciel does just that. It doesn't bother him. The man plays graveyard games with his _food;_ using funerary items for furniture isn't exactly out of character.

Undertaker serves him tea in a glass beaker that smells faintly of formaldehyde, and Ciel nearly wishes he'd let Sebastian follow him in after all. At least the demon could tell him whether he's likely to be poisoned by the refreshments.

"So," Undertaker says, drawing it out to too many syllables. His smile is back, but it's different, changed. He used to smile like he was in on some magnificent private jest no one else was aware of; now he smiles like he knows everyone will get the joke eventually, and it will always be sooner than they'd like. "What brings the Earl of Phantomhive to me?"

It's business and Undertaker knows it. That makes it easier.

"There's been a string of disappearances. Gambling debts is the official word, but the latest one was as pious as a Puritan, so the story's wearing a bit thin. The Yard hasn't come up with any leads, and there've been no mysterious bodies found, but if you've heard anything...."

"Mysterious bodies, is it? Hmm...I might have heard a thing or two, if only I could remember...."

He's been expecting this, and he reaches into his coat for his chequebook with no crack in his expression. Friendship is one thing, but business is business. "Of course you'll be compensated--"

The corners of Undertaker's smile turn down. "With money?" He sounds insulted. "I've no need of it. I'm not interested in your coin. You should know by now what I want. Give me _that,_ Earl," he says, smile twitching horribly as he lounges on a casket of his own, leaning back on his hands. "You've kept me waiting long enough."

Ciel can only stare. He thinks he may be sick. Is _this_ the man he's played with since he was a child? He's never once wondered why someone so much older would seek out his company, but now--

He sets his tea aside and rises, eyes cold. Not knowing whether he's meeting Undertaker's leer or not beneath that silvery mop leaves him both self-conscious and relieved, but his hands are steady as he slips loose his cufflinks, tucking them neatly into his pocket as he unknots his tie. He's clumsy regardless; Sebastian usually does this for him, but he thinks he can manage to get undressed on his own.

Undertaker tilts his head with a look as quizzical as a dog's. A sheepdog's, perhaps. "What are you doing?" he asks, the savage humor that's always lurking just beneath his words these days fading to confusion.

Ciel's lip curls as he starts on the buttons of his shirt. "I'd prefer to walk out of here with some decorum," he snaps, "so forgive me if I don't wish to dirty my clothes for this. If you thought I'd be wearing your mark for all of London to see," he adds viciously, "I suggest you think again."

"My--?" Undertaker gapes at him, and all at once the man is on his feet, striding closer to knock Ciel's hands away from their work. He's buttoning Ciel up tight again before he can back away, refastening his tie so tightly it nearly chokes him, all but vibrating with the words he's clamping behind clenched teeth.

It explodes all at once, and all Ciel can do is stare as Undertaker grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him hard, twice. "You little fool! You thought I wanted to _fuck_ you? You should know my fee by now--you've paid in your father's place enough times, God knows!"

"What...what are you talking about?"

"You're supposed to make me _laugh,_ little Earl," Undertaker grinds out, his smile mostly snarl as he leans down, his nose just inches from Ciel's. "You're so good at it, and it's been months, and...what were you _thinking?"_

That Undertaker will be just like every other human, actually. Apparently he's wrong.

"I don't think I can make anyone laugh right now," he says instead, staring up frank and unafraid at the faint glints of the man's eyes, so close but still all but invisible.

Undertaker sighs and straightens, hands gentling on Ciel's shoulders though they don't let him go entirely. "You could at least try," he says, practically wheedling, and shakes his head. "Really, boy. What would you have done if I hadn't stopped you?"

"Let you fuck me," Ciel says, feeling his right eye burn beneath the patch. One word from him, two, and Sebastian would be there in a heartbeat. If he chose.

Undertaker's hands tighten, long nails digging into his shoulders. There's stunned disbelief in his stillness, the lax part of his lips, the tense breath he draws in.

And then the man is laughing-- _howling,_ really--leaning on him as his knees buckle with the force of his mirth. Ciel can barely hold him up, glowering at the idiot and pushing him to sit on the casket he'd vacated. Undertaker lands with a thump and nearly falls off, wrapping both arms around his stomach and rocking in place. "You," Undertaker manages, strangled, "you can't be--ohhhhh, that's the stuff!"

Ciel glares and folds his arms. "I was serious."

" _Were_ you?" He's set the man off again, and it's a good five minutes before Undertaker gets his breath back, wipes tears from his eyes. "Oh, Earl. You'd go that far for that queen of yours? Truly?"

"Why not?" he asks, embarrassed and furious. The man sounds like he still thinks it's a joke. "It's not as if I'm losing anything by it."

That chokes the laughter dead in Undertaker's throat. Seeing him coiled there in sudden tension, head lowered and teeth bared, Ciel is abruptly certain that he doesn't want to see the man's eyes right now, maybe not ever. "Not the butler?" Undertaker asks, so casually it makes the short hairs at the back of Ciel's neck prickle and rise.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ha. No," Undertaker agrees, a soft chuckle underscoring his words as he begins to relax. "You'd just have him killed."

"Hmph." It isn't possible--isn't necessary--but it happens to be true.

Undertaker is silent for a moment, staring up at him with an odd sort of grin that's nearly pleased. "I've had a lot of new customers," he says at last, and Ciel pricks up his ears, commits every word to memory. "The good citizens who bring them in keep telling me they're gutter trash, and they're certainly dressed for the part, but tarts and thieves don't eat as well as these...to say nothing of their last meals."

"I understand. Can you tell me where they're buried? And who brought them?"

He can and does, and helps Ciel with his cufflinks before he leaves. Ciel wants to apologize for the misunderstanding, but Undertaker looks like he'll start laughing again if he tries, and anyway, he'd rather forget the entire thing.

A hand on his arm stops him as he's reaching for the door handle, and he hesitates but doesn't look back.

"Don't worry, boy," Undertaker says, amused again and looming over him, leaning down to murmur into his ear. "It isn't that you're not lovely. But I think you'd like what I'd do to you even less than what they did."

Oh, and that's just perfect. Now he's traumatized all over again.

***

The thing is, he can't stop thinking about it.

***

He only waits until he's three steps through the door, long enough to make sure none of Undertaker's clients are among the breathing, before he says, "I want you to fuck me."

It wins him a helpless snorting sound that's half snicker, half cackle, but Undertaker shakes his head. "You must be desperate for information, boy. You've used that trick before."

The shop hasn't improved any since the first time he stepped through the door, bare months after the fire, his return to London. It's still dim and dusty, smells of preservative and a certain sweetness he's going to tell himself is decaying lilies lest he be put off of sweet things for the rest of his life. Undertaker looks exactly the same, his scarred face unlined, his rictus grin unfaded, though he's always dressed for work these days. Maybe there's simply more work to be done.

"I'm serious," he says, locking the door behind him. He feels Sebastian's absence at his side acutely, doubts very much the demon has remained at the manor. He hasn't made it an order. But Sebastian isn't _here._ "This isn't work. I want you to fuck me."

He's using blunt words so he can't be mistaken, can't be called a child who doesn't know what he wants, and he _still_ expects Undertaker to laugh him out of the shop, send him back home with a pat on the head and his curiosity unsatisfied.

Undertaker cocks his head thoughtfully, blows on the beaker of tea he's nursing, and asks, "Not the butler?"

Ciel flushes hotly. He wants to reply with the same thing he did three years ago-- _don't be ridiculous_ \--but he can't. "He'll eat me alive," he says instead. It's fact in one sense, a distinct possibility in another; he doesn't know. What he does know is that he has no intention of tempting a demon beyond its ability to resist without knowing what he's risking his life and his soul for.

"I see," Undertaker says, dragging the words out with a faint little laugh. "And you honestly think I'm safer?"

Actually, it would be really, really nice if it turns out Undertaker _isn't._ At least then he'll be prepared for anything Sebastian does to him. He doubts he'll be that lucky.

"I'm willing to risk it," he says with a shrug, trying to look confident, fearless, like he knows what he's doing.

He doesn't think he succeeds all that well, but Undertaker sets his tea aside, stands up and gestures with a flourish towards the back room.

"Then step into my parlour, boy. We'll talk, and then you can run."

"And if I don't?"

Undertaker's smile is a lean quirk of patience with barely any teeth in it at all. "We'll see."

The back room turns out to be an office, but Undertaker leads him right through it to a set of stairs beyond. Ciel's always thought Undertaker sleeps in his coffins; he's found the man inside them often enough when he comes to visit. Instead it turns out there's a perfectly normal set of rooms upstairs, with hopelessly outdated furniture badly in need of a good dusting, though all of it's quality. This time when Undertaker offers him a seat, there's an actual chair involved: high-backed, hand-crafted, set at a polite angle to its twin.

"I ought to offer you tea," Undertaker says as he drifts by, "but I think this calls for something stronger."

"Don't trouble yourself," Ciel tries to say, but Undertaker is already busy, opening a bottle that looks at least as old as Ciel is. Brandy, unless Undertaker has mixed up his glasses, and he sighs and takes what he's given, determined to be polite.

He hesitates with the glass just touching his lips when Undertaker sets down a small vial on the little table between their chairs. The brown glass has no label, tells him nothing, but the seal, if there ever was one, is missing.

"Sebastian will kill you if you poison me," he feels it necessary to warn, in case the man has forgotten.

"Oh, I've no doubt of that," Undertaker says, nearly gleeful, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced across his stomach and his long legs stretched out before him. "It won't hurt you, though. It'll be just like drifting off to sleep."

 _Sounds like dying,_ he wants to say, _or so they tell me._

"And why," he asks instead, "would I want to sleep through it? I assure you I'd be a willing partner."

"But I don't wish you to be," Undertaker says frankly. "I don't want you _un_ willing. It's just that I'd rather you had no will at all."

Ciel frowns, puts down his drink untasted. "I don't understand."

"No. I don't expect you would. But if you drink this," he adds, tapping a nail against thick brown glass, "you won't have to understand anything at all. No arguments, no worries, no pain."

"I wouldn't mind," he breathes, starting to get the picture.

Undertaker snorts, unimpressed. "Of course you wouldn't, Earl, because we won't be doing this. I'm no good to you if you're asleep, and you're no good to me if you're awake. Go on back and let the butler take care of you. He doesn't seem to have done too bad a job so far."

He knows a dismissal when he hears one, suspects the man even has a point. He has no idea why he even wants to argue.

"We can compromise," he says, trying not to sound too desperate. "I stay awake. You do whatever you like. I won't...I won't even make a sound. Just...the patch stays on." He wants to explain that even less than he wants to explain why he wants to do this so badly, with Undertaker, who he at least trusts. And who's going to be nice about it, probably, when the man turns him down.

Undertaker says nothing for a long moment, though his smile is doing awful, jerky things and his fingers are knotted so tightly his knuckles stand out white. When he rises, Ciel half expects to be dragged down the stairs by his ear and pitched out into the street.

All he can do is stare as the man looms over him, leaning down to press the pad of one finger against Ciel's lips. "One word," he murmurs softly, "and we stop. Understood?"

Ciel wants to at least nod, but something tells him he shouldn't. He stares past one broad, black shoulder instead, gaze unfocusing as he lets his eyes relax, and tries not to twitch as Undertaker draws a harsh, heavy breath at the sight. Their little game begins _now._

He doesn't struggle as Undertaker lifts him out of the chair like a child, forces himself to relax against the man's chest, lean but strong. He lolls his head onto a shoulder he expects to be bony and feels solid muscle beneath, and he's belatedly irritated with himself for being surprised. Undertaker takes his job seriously--maybe a little too seriously--and the digging of graves isn't for the weak.

Another person--he isn't going to think about Sebastian right now--would have tested him by dropping him onto the bed to see whether he'd flop or bounce. Undertaker lays him down carefully, arranging his limbs neatly before walking away. The man is humming, of all things, like it's another day at the office, and Ciel is so nonplused at first that it takes him a moment to recognize the tune.

_Ashes, ashes, we all...fall...down._

He doesn't want to be caught staring, so he watches the ceiling as things clink and splash, doors open and shut. It seems pretty anticlimactic to be just lying here, but when Undertaker comes back, the man's down to shirtsleeves rolled up to bare his forearms, hints of corded biceps. A basin of water is set down on the little table by the bed, and Ciel tries not to fidget, tells himself to be patient.

"Well, well," Undertaker hums, sitting down beside him and stroking Ciel's hair, brushing it away from his face. "What a lovely client they've sent me today. It's a pity he's so young. All that life to look forward to, if he'd just been a little smarter."

It's _torture_ not to roll his eyes, to resist the urge to snap that he hadn't agreed to sit through a lecture. Undertaker snickers softly and reaches out to pass his hand over Ciel's left eye, and Ciel closes it obediently. He supposes the illusion is better that way without him blinking all the time, but eyes do come open again, Ciel knows, unless they're sewn shut. He'll bide his time, wait for something worth seeing, before he opens them again.

"Mm, yes. Such a pity. But you've one last party to go to, my little lord, and the guest of honor should look his best."

It's odd not to be able to see. He _wants_ to see--where Undertaker's hands are, where they're going, what the man looks like when he strokes his thumb down the line of Ciel's throat--but he thinks he might start blushing if he did. He's used to being undressed by others; Sebastian does it every day, one of the older servants before that, always brisk and professional. None of them have ever been as curiously gentle as Undertaker, who moves him about like a well-loved doll, humming under his breath the entire time.

It's cool in the upper rooms, or maybe it's just his nerves that make his arms sprout gooseflesh as his buttons are slipped one by one: the jacket, the waistcoat, the neatly-pressed shirt beneath. He's surely wrinkled his clothes by now, and Sebastian will _tsk_ at him when he returns and ask whether the young master has been rolling about in--but he's not thinking about Sebastian right now. He's forcing himself to relax, arms falling limply to his sides as Undertaker lifts him up, props him against a sturdy shoulder, and begins to slide his clothes off.

From this close Undertaker smells faintly of tobacco and loam, dust and bones, and beneath all that, of warm human musk. It's a clean, dry scent, and Ciel breathes it in, slow and steady, and doesn't gasp at the first touch of cool hands on his skin.

He's never paid much attention to how big Undertaker's hands are, though they've startled him before, fingers tracing playful lines like knives across his throat or demonstrating exactly where a disemboweling cut has been made. It isn't until he feels one broad palm completely engulf his nape that he really gets the _scale_ of the thing. He's older now, but he's still small, skinny, undersized. Undertaker is...not.

A mouth finds his ear, and he can feel the twitch of a smile. "Not scared yet, hmm? Leave it to Undertaker, then. I'll take care of you," he says, easing Ciel back down again. "I've always taken care of the Phantomhives."

He doesn't let himself react to that, doesn't know if it's a final test, a feint to make him blink. _Always,_ he says. Always takes care of them. But Ciel's parents were burned, and he wouldn't--he wouldn't have....

Maybe. Maybe not. But Ciel suspects there won't be much left of _him,_ either, so perhaps the man had better make the most of it while he can.

His shoes fall to the floor with twin thuds, and he's suddenly embarrassed that he's been lying in someone else's bed with them on. His trousers are next, the not-quite-ticklish brush of Undertaker's knuckles against his stomach making it hard to breathe. It's instinct to want to raise his hips, help with the whole disrobing process, but Undertaker is strong enough to lift him with ease, stripping him down to the skin with no assistance from Ciel at all.

He's expecting...something, now that he's naked. A touch at least, whether furtive or firm. A kiss, maybe. Instead his ears perk to the sound of a cloth being wrung out over a basin, and he nearly can't keep his brows from arching in surprise as he feels a wet cloth dragged gently over his face. It takes a moment to realize that Undertaker is preparing him, as if he's really...dead.

The water is cool, but he supposes a corpse wouldn't mind. It's actually sort of nice, in a deeply weird sort of way, being handled so carefully, stroked and petted by a soft cloth and callused hands. It doesn't stop with his face; the cloth slides down his neck and over his chest, his arms, his legs, lingering in places that shallow his breath more convincingly than his acting skills could allow for. He wonders for a crazed second whether Undertaker will be disappointed that he's ruining the illusion entirely with the impossible stiffness of his erection, but the man purrs a chuckle and murmurs, "No need to ask what _you_ were spending your last moments on."

He hates the fact that that's probably prophetic, but then long nails are skimming lightly up the length of him, and he forgets everything but the need to lie absolutely still.

"Not so bad a way to go, if you have to go at all, hmm? And not half so undignified as hanging."

Ciel really, really doesn't want to know. And will probably ask one of them anyway--Sebastian, Undertaker himself--because he won't be able to stop thinking about it otherwise.

"But it's strange to see you so quiet. Are you not feeling well, Earl?"

He wonders if Undertaker has forgotten the game. Then he wonders if Undertaker has forgotten he's still alive.

"Or maybe the cat's got your tongue," he says, a short burst of laughter escaping him that's nothing like the cheerful hysterics that mean Ciel will be getting his information after all. If this is how Undertaker laughs in private, it's no wonder he deals in jests and japes in exchange for his knowledge. "Come now...let's have a look."

Blunt nails tap at Ciel's lips before long fingers press and push, sliding into his mouth as he relaxes his jaw to let them in. The salt of skin stings his tongue as Undertaker curls his fingers, opens his mouth wider. "Lovely," he hears as the bedsprings creak, platinum hair tickling his cheek as Undertaker leans down, breath warm on his face.

It isn't a proper kiss. Two fingers prop his mouth open as Undertaker's tongue traces his lips, his teeth, the inside of his cheek. He can feel his mouth going dry, but when Undertaker licks at his tongue, it's soft and wet, a sinuous caress he wants more of.

"Lovely," he hears again, dry lips brushing his cheek.

That mouth is on his neck in the next breath, tracing the line of his pulse with lingering, sucking kisses. Teeth drag over his skin, lightly at first, but that's just a warning. He doesn't flinch when they close down on his throat, just above his collarbone, sure to leave a mark. It hurts, but he wants to tip his head back for more. He doesn't mind pain. Not when Undertaker is already breathing hard, easing up onto the bed to straddle his hips, hands stroking down his arms to drag his unresisting wrists up over his head.

There's no 'kiss-and-make-it-better' with Undertaker. When he removes his teeth from Ciel's skin, he licks at the bite with a hum of satisfaction and moves on, laughing under his breath as he explores Ciel's flesh. It's impossible to stay relaxed as his nipples are bitten raw, every nip and lash of tongue going straight to his cock. He settles for not thrashing beneath the man, tries to stop the reflexive jerking of his legs, but it's good, so very good.

He nearly _squirms_ when Undertaker licks a hot, wet stripe up the side of his arm. They're so close he can feel the stiff column of the man's erection against his hip, the pulse of it as it nudges against him, still trapped behind cloth. It feels huge and impossibly hard, and it'd be an outright lie to say he isn't nervous. Thankfully he won't have to lie; he can't say a word unless he wants this to be over, and it's an unexpected relief to know he only has to control his body, that keeping his voice steady and sure is the last of his worries.

Undertaker mouths his way along Ciel's wrist, his palm, closes his lips over two fingers and sucks. His tongue is never still, lapping and curling, pushing between, scouring the salt from his skin. Ciel's prick twitches helplessly, but his imagination's always been good, too good. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning as Undertaker pulls his mouth slowly up the length of his fingers and lets them slip free with a wet sound, only to take the next two inside.

He's going to die. He _wants_ to come. He doesn't think either is going to happen within the next five minutes, though, so going insane seems to be his only option.

Maybe it counts as taking pity on him when Undertaker makes his way back down Ciel's body, but it takes all his will to keep his arms where they are, to resist the urge to grab and pull when Undertaker descends on his cock with far too much enthusiasm. If he stops to wonder why a hard prick seems like a novelty to be explored, there's a good chance he'll lose his erection in short order, and Undertaker doesn't need the encouragement. He's already doing just...just fine on his...oh, _God._

He's been played with before, had hands and mouths in places he hadn't been able to think about at the time without a blush. It isn't that he's never felt this before. It's just that there's no mockery in Undertaker's hunger, no snide comments about what a _little_ lord he is, and isn't he easy to please? Nothing but a ravenous mouth, a low groan of dark satisfaction, nearly a growl, and two hands bruising his thighs, holding them open, pressing his knees flat to the bed.

His whole body goes tight, forgetting to breathe but not his role. He's so close, his eyes rolling back behind his closed lids and his entire focus narrows down to the heat that surrounds him, the unpredictable scrape of teeth and the soft slick _wet_ that pulls at him, shameless and obscene. He's going to come, now, right now, but before he can lose himself, Undertaker is letting him go with a final swirl of tongue around his cockhead, and he reconsiders dying as he fights not to pant for air. If he'd known he was agreeing to torture, he might have put more conditions on the thing.

Undertaker sits up, the pressure of his hands on Ciel's knees lightening until the strain of stretched muscles is negligible. "Poor Earl," he murmurs, thumbs stroking small circles on Ciel's skin. "You're years too young for this, you know."

He's trying not to scowl--he's not a _child_ \--but he's horribly afraid he might have failed when he feels Undertaker rise, slide off the bed entirely. He _needs_ to open his eyes, right now, but the rustle of cloth calms the nervous gallop of his heart. Something thumps to the floor--a boot, he thinks, followed by another--and then Undertaker is back, hands sliding under Ciel's hips to pull him half into the man's lap.

He leaves his knees splayed open, manages not to smirk at the man's appreciative chuckle. "Nn. Beautiful boy. At least I don't have to worry about hurting you, hmm?"

That...sounds ominous. But the fingers that touch him are cool and slick, and that's more than he'd known to hope for before.

It does hurt. Undertaker's nails are too long, scraping and pinching though he slides them in slow. The incredulous laugh is nerve-wracking, and he _does not_ want to know what Undertaker finds so surprising about him, considering that he's nothing special.

But Undertaker...oh, God, Undertaker might be, because he feels huge as he starts to press himself inside, too fast at first until he stops, hums something contemplative, and changes his angle, eases in slow.

Ciel wills himself to relax, to breathe. This is his idea. He wants it, and he's not going to call it off now. But it's maybe a little more than he bargained for, and it hurts almost as bad as he remembers, and--

"Hn," Undertaker purrs, fully inside him now, and reaches up to brush sweat-damp hair away from Ciel's face. "That's good, boy," he says, a low, fond croon that makes something in the pit of Ciel's stomach go warm and needy. "That's _very_ good."

So maybe he remembers why he's doing this after all.

It doesn't hurt half so much once he lets himself relax, and Undertaker goes slow, though he grips Ciel's knees, his hips, like they're something to steer with. It's hard to keep still when he wants so badly to move, to grind himself up against the stroke of Undertaker's cock, drive that hard length against the place inside that makes him want to buck and thrash. He ought to hate being helpless again, but this time it's his choice, all his. He can end it with a word, and that word doesn't have to be _Sebastian._

He's bent almost double before long, Undertaker pounding into him hard and fast, breathless laughter shaking the man. It's the good kind, at least, the kind Ciel's father used to drag out of him, and that warms Ciel through even as the man's stroke goes erratic. They're close, both of them, and Ciel barely needs the cool grip of a hand on his prick to make him come, messily, opening his eyes since he's certain he's spoiled the game entirely.

Only Undertaker can't stop _laughing,_ leaning into Ciel while he twitches and shudders, his hair curtaining his face entirely though they're kissing-close. "Oh," the man says at last in a strangled voice, " _that's_ new."

Ciel thumps him with a groan, but he's too busy staring to be properly horrified. It suddenly makes sense to him why nobody in their right mind tries to tangle with the man, and it's not because Undertaker is rarely in _his._ Hand the man a shovel, and he'd be nearly unstoppable in a brawl.

He pushes the man over when it looks like he won't stop giggling anytime soon, trying not to wince as they disengage. There's a brief moment when he feels like there ought to be awkward shuffling or embarrassed stammering, but it's hard to manage a proper sense of mortification with Undertaker drawn into a long, naked curl of muscle and mussed hair, spasming with hilarity.

"Hmph," Ciel says as the man winds down to the occasional hiccup and twitch. "You owe me for next time."

"Oh? For this?" Undertaker asks with a grin, reaching out to rest his hand lightly on Ciel's lower belly, fingertips sliding though slick traces Ciel hasn't bothered to wipe away.

"For the laugh," Ciel corrects, which stretches Undertaker's grin even wider.

"Ah. In that case, it's a deal. You're always welcome, of course," he adds slyly, "you and that butler of yours."

He's pretty sure Undertaker means that in a strictly business sense, only...Sebastian has always been a better actor than him, and just picturing the demon stretched out on this dusty bed, boneless, unprotesting, no matter what they do to him....

"We'll see," he says, and Undertaker grins a grin that would put a Reaper to shame.

***

He's not surprised at how late it is when he finally leaves, clothes put to rights with Undertaker's needling help, tea instead of brandy warming him from the inside out. He's not even surprised to find a carriage waiting for him or Sebastian sitting patiently in the driver's seat, waiting for him to come out. He doesn't hesitate as he pulls the door of the mortuary closed behind him, though he takes a close, hard look at Sebastian's unruffled smile as the demon steps down, opens the carriage door for him.

Sebastian says nothing, but the silence is expectant, not oppressive. Ciel doesn't intend to be the one to break it.

"Well, young master?" Sebastian asks at last as Ciel settles into his seat. It's padded, but he suspects this won't be a comfortable trip.

The demon's voice is politely inquiring, but it's clear he knows everything.

"Better than I expected," Ciel replies candidly, "though I'd rather have been a more active participant."

"I see." Maybe he even does.

He isn't going to say it. Hasn't he promised the demon enough already? But Sebastian waits, doesn't shut the carriage door, like he knows very well that Ciel has already made up his mind.

"Do you think it could be arranged?"

"Your active participation?" Sebastian asks, too innocently. "But of course, young master. After all...if the butler of the Phantomhives couldn't manage that much...."

Ciel smirks, pushes Sebastian away from the door with the tip of his cane planted against the demon's chest. "Shut up and drive," he says. It isn't a 'no.'

Sebastian bows low over a perfect smile. "Yes," he says, "my Lord."

They make it back to the mansion in record time.

**Author's Note:**

> Action here is between Undertaker and Ciel, with Undertaker being uninterested in a living partner and Ciel mostly being interested in testing the waters with someone he trusts before he goes tempting a demon. Ciel willingly pretends to be a passive body (the implied/referenced rape is all regarding the time of his capture); no actual necro is involved.


End file.
